


Emmetropia

by theseaanemone



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied Post-Apocalyptic Future, Outer Space, Sci-Fi, Squirrels, Suspense, implied brainwashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 04:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseaanemone/pseuds/theseaanemone
Summary: This is how it starts: with stars outside the window and one assignment in a string on many. This is how it ends: with a cold cell and a hand stretched out in the darkness.Or, hundreds of years after humanity has abandoned Earth in favour of the stars, the Jupiter Confederacy sends a team of scientists and anthropologists to assess a long-isolated space station. It quickly becomes apparent something is not quite right. In which there is low job satisfaction, the prospect of new friendships, and squirrels where there should not be squirrels.





	Emmetropia

**Author's Note:**

> There's an older version of this story somewhere on the internet under the name Among the Stars. While I was trying to find that story (if you have a burning desire to read that version, you can find it at http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?86679-Among-the-Stars. It's... fine, I guess, although subtlety was clearly not 16-year-old me's thing), I learned that there's a board game called Among the Stars, so I renamed it. Also I was half asleep when I edited this but I'm too lazy to edit it again, so hopefully there aren't any glaring mistakes.

This is how it starts: with a stream of stars past the window and the echo of a tinny newsfeed from two rooms over. Karen is slumped back in her chair— there’s a half-done crossword on the table and a pencil twirling between her fingers, but it’s been too long since she’s done more than glance at it to say she’s playing. Three days into the journey, the shuttle air tastes filtered and faintly dusty. The confinement makes her antsy, or maybe it’s just the company: there are two people she knows properly on the expedition plus a team worth of scientists she’s passed in the halls every so often. The door opens, loudly: they’re all a clunky hydraulic model that was new back when the shuttle was built and they’ve got all the worst features of new technology.  
“How can there be people in every single room?” the newcomer says. She’s one of the scientists, a woman with curling brown hair and the top half of her jumpsuit tied around her waist. Karen should probably know her name but doesn’t.  
“Tough,” Karen says. The other woman shrugs, pulls out a chair and drops into it, propping her booted feet up onto the table.  
“Clearly, whoever designed this thing is trying to torture us.” Then, sticking out a hand, “Mona Vasquez.”  
“Karen Anderson.” Mona reaches over and plucks the crossword from the table.  
“You’re shit at this,” she says. There’s an impish sort of smile on her face that makes Karen think she’s not really looking to be alone at all.  
“Maybe I just stared,” Karen says. Mona chews her lip as she reads the puzzle— she’s got little red marks all along the bottom where the skin’s come off. She grins again and says,  
“Huh. Apparently I’m shit at this, too.”  
“We should make a club.” They sit like that for a bit, paper between them, staring out at the stars. When Karen was younger and a bit more idealistic, she thought she’d never get tired of watching the stars. Ten years later and on her third consecutive assignment, she thinks even the Jupiter Confederacy barracks would be a welcome change. They’re cramped and she can’t remember a time when she got to sleep in a comfortable bed, but it’s the closest she has to home. The door opens again. This time it’s Thomas Monroe standing in the doorway, eyes wide beneath his unruly mop of hair. He’s the youngest of their team and still unreasonably excited about everything, including a trip to an old settlement in the backwaters of nowhere.  
“We’re getting a signal,” he says. “Stephan wants everyone there so he can introduce the team.”  
“We’ll be there in a minute,” Karen says. It’s meant to get him out of the room but he waits by the door, trying and failing to keep a grin from his face.  
“What do you think it’ll be like?” he asks. “The only ex-prison colony I’ve been to was Teffista and I was only ten so I don’t even remember it that well. I mean, their original population wasn’t the greatest— on 45, I mean, not Teffista, but I guess there, too— and that’s got to do something, right?” He’s looking at her expectantly, the way the new ones do when they’re new out of school and used to having professors around to answer their questions.  
“I don’t know, Thomas. I haven’t been there, either,” she says. She’s tired. Of the cafeteria food, of the stiff jumpsuits, of the interviews, of the recycled air. She wonders if Thomas will be like her later. It makes her a little sad in her more compassionate moments. In her other moments, it mostly makes her indifferent. (She wonders if Stephan thought the same about her when she was new. Then again, she never was as enthusiastic as Thomas.) 

The shuttle is all stainless steel and regulation grey-beige and it makes the hallways blend together into an indistinguishable maze where Thomas gets them half-lost because he grew up planet-side and has no sense for these places. The rest of the team is already gathered on the bridge: the scientists talking among themselves along the back wall and Stephan at the front, fiddling with the old holographic projector.  
“Anderson, Vasquez. How kind of you to finally join us,” he says. He’s tall and even-featured in a way that makes it almost impossible to tell how old he really is, but he’s got a shock of meticulously combed grey hair that hints at middle age and a toothpaste commercial smile that hints at a tendency towards the obsessive.  
“Put your suit on properly, Vasquez,” he says.  
“Sure, thing, sir,” she says, and puts her suit on properly. Stephan is still fiddling with the controls so Karen leans over and says,  
“Need any help, Steph?” because she knows it annoys him but he’s not petty enough to fire her for being disrespectful. (She’s not attached enough to the job to care if he was.) He considers it and then he steps aside to let her try, because he might be too proud to ask for help but he’s practical enough to accept it when it’s offered. The machine is old and clunky and she’s not sure she’s making any more progress than Stephan, but eventually the hologram flickers up and stabilizes. The machine’s old enough that the holograms are all in layered blue and red like the old 3-D movies they’d sometimes show in class when they were talking about Old Earth— there are supposed to be glasses that go with it, but they’d lost the first set and no one can find any to replace them. The man standing in the blue haze smiles, probably— the hologram blurs his features, making it hard to tell. Stephan straightens his spine, minutely, and corrals them all into line with a flick of his wrist behind his back. He smiles, showing all his blinding white teeth, and says,  
“This is Jupiter Confederacy Shuttle Butterfly to Settlement 45. How is the connection, 45?”  
“Clear on our end,” says the man on the other side.  
“On ours as well,” Stephan says. There’s a particular voice he uses at this stage, somewhere between business-like and casual, assessing in the way of someone watching out the corner of their eye. “On behalf of the Jupiter Confederacy and of my crew especially, thank you once again for your warm reception.”  
“I cannot tell you how overjoyed we all are at your visit,” the man says, and he’s matching Stephan’s tone, but it’s careful, lingering on the inflections— he’s mimicking, but he’s mimicking well. “Oh, but how foolish of me. I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Washington, and I’ve been Chief Commander of the Settlement 45 for… gosh, I can’t even remember now. A long time, suffice to say.” Stephan smiles, thinly; Karen can tell he’s scanning the man’s face through the blue film, teasing out an age from the blurred features.  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “Stephan Eristov, leader of the expedition. This is my deputy, Karen Anderson, and Thomas Monroe, the newest addition to our team. Here we have Elspeth Kenna, head of our scientific division, and her team: Jasper Chen, Mona Vasquez, and David Bennett. We will be playing a primarily observation role, though we are of course more than happy to answer any questions you might have. I would like to emphasize that we are an independent branch and not involved in any way in negotiations.” Washington nods.  
“Of course, I understand completely. Now, I’m told you’ll be needing to hear the landing information?” Washington motions to someone off-screen and a slim, mousy-looking man steps up beside him. He glances at the hologram then quickly away, hands twisting together. Washington claps him on the shoulder. “This is Richmond. Richmond knows everything about our colony, don’t you, Richmond?” The other man nods and Washington laughs, too loudly. He says, “well then, I better leave you to it.”  
Richmond gives them the landing information all in a rush, words tripping over each other. Stephan smiles at him blandly the whole time, the way he does when the administration starts breathing down his neck about his teaching requirement and he’s trying to put the students at ease, but not too much. Karen doesn’t listen because she’s not flying the shuttle and besides, they all land the same way. Richmond goes silent and slinks off; Washington comes back to exchange the final pleasantries with Stephan. The hologram flickers off and they all drop their stiff posture.  
“Anderson, Monroe, what are your initial observations?” Stephan asks. He’s got a notepad in his hand— Karen thinks he must have all his inside pockets lined with them, because he produces them out of thin air at a moment’s notice. They both look at Thomas— it’s his first time out in the field and he must know they’re assessing him because he lifts his chin and laces his fingers together. (He used to fidget whenever he gave a presentation until Karen had taken pity on him and told him to stop.)  
“The suits are 22nd century style but the lapels are a bit different, I think,” he says.  
“What does that tell you?” Karen asks, because Stephan’s assessing her, too. “And don’t say ‘I think’.”  
“Fashion hasn’t changed a lot since they left the planet. According to the files they sent us they’re more or less completely isolated so a part of it probably is because there’s no influence from other places, but it’s also been nearly two hundred years, which means there’s probably a deliberate effort to keep close to Old Earth styles. Or they don’t usually dress like that but they decided to for us.” Thomas smiles uncertainly at them, waiting for their judgement.  
“Good. Anderson?”  
“Names support an attachment to Old Earth, and I’m inclined to believe them when they claim they were isolated— Washington’s comfortable talking as an authority figure but he’s not a practiced diplomat, and the other one just looked scared.” Stephan nods, once.  
“Thank you. That will be all for now.” The science team melts back through the identical doorways but Thomas hangs back, watching them expectantly until Stephan waves him on.  
“He’s doing fine,” Karen says when he’s out of earshot. “He’ll be one of our better ones after a few assignments. He’s friendly, people like him.”  
“Thomas needs positive reinforcement,” Stephan says.  
“Thomas needs to learn to tell how he’s done on his own.” There’s a nagging feeling in the back of her mind she’s learned not to ignore, so she says, “I’ll look out for him, Steph.”  
“Good.” 

Three days later, Karen is clutching the threadbare armrest as the shuttle screams into the artificial atmosphere of Settlement 45. Her skin is clammy. She wants to close her eyes but when she does nausea claws its way up her throat. Mona Vasquez is in the window seat beside her, pressed up against the triple-thick heat-proof glass.  
“I love this part,” she says. There’s a five-point harness pinning her into the seat so Karen can’t lean over, but she turns her head to glare at Mona, who is far too cheerful about the whole thing. 45 is a station settlement, a clunky series of rectangular wings sprawled out like spider’s legs, glossy black to absorb the sun and with more solar panels fanning out past it. The landing isn’t gentle: yellow-orange-red blazes past the windows until at the last minute foamy flame-retardant stifles it and they’re plummeting until, very suddenly, they are not. Her teeth clack together. Behind her someone lets out a shaky sigh. They taxi over the smooth surface and into the airlock. It seals behind them and they wait for the pressure to stabilize. When the interior door opens, it’s clear the station wasn’t designed with an abundance of visitors in mind: the space is all concrete, narrow walls and low ceiling, barely large enough to fit their lone shuttle. They edge carefully into the space, and then they wait. Karen unbuckles her harness, slides down low in her seat.  
“Is this your first assignment?” Mona asks, freeing herself from her own harness. Karen shakes her head.  
“Not even close. You?”  
“It’s my second,” Mona says. The shuttle door opens and two people step through. One is Richmond of delivering the landing information fame; the other is a hard-faced woman maybe in her late twenties dressed in a uniform that probably means police. There’s an ominous-looking polished black baton at her hip. She seems to be waiting for Richmond to speak. He takes off his glasses and polishes them on the edge of his shirt, movements quick and jerky, and puts them back on crooked.  
“Hello,” he says, and then pauses, apparently unsure where to go from there. “My name is Richmond. Er— you already knew that, never mind. I’m head engineer, actually, I’m here to collect the science team so if you could follow me, please, just over here…” The scientists unclip their harnesses and shuffle into the isles.  
“See you later,” Mona says. Karen waves in response. Richmond’s companion stands at the doorway as they file out, one hand resting casually on her baton.  
“Follow me,” she says, and starts walking. Karen, Stephan, and Tom climb out of their seats and follow her out into the hangar, where they have to press flat against the wall to squeeze past the shuttle. The woman unlocks the door with a palm pressed onto a strip of white paint and pauses, as if for dramatic effect, before she pushes the door open with a flourish. Karen and Thomas exchange glances. The room beyond is roughly spherical, four storeys up with desks on both the floors and ceilings— it’s an impressive use of artificial gravity for a place so secluded, but not an uncommon one in the more densely occupied space stations. There’s a rectangular atrium in the middle, so you can look up at the desks crowded on the ceiling or the people walking below. Settlement 45 wasn’t a prison when it was sent up, but it’s designed like one, and there were only so many renovations one can make on a spaceship. Their escort turns towards them with a triumphant smile.  
“Welcome to Settlement 45,” she says, sweeping an arm out at the room.  
“Thank you. We’re glad to be here,” Stephan says. Whatever answer the woman was expecting, this isn’t it. Her mouth twists, eyebrows furrowing together, and for a moment, Karen thinks she will hit him. She doesn’t. Instead, she turns away, shoulders taught, and when she faces them once more, she’s wearing an expression too strained to be polite. “I’m in charge of you for the duration of your visit,” she says. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” Her tone tells them that they should not only hesitate but investigate every possible alternative before they even consider coming to her.  
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Stephan says. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”  
“Amsterdam.” Karen steps on Thomas’s foot, just in case he’s thinking of saying something.  
“Well then, Amsterdam, it’s a pleasure to meet you. May I ask what your role is on this ship?” Stephan asked.  
“It’s none of your business,” Amsterdam says. “I will show you to your rooms.” 

Anthropology hasn’t evolved all that much since Bronislaw Malinowski ended up on the Trobriand Islands and popularized participant observation, way back in the twentieth century on Old Earth, so after Amsterdam leaves her in a cabin approximately the size of a broom closet, Karen sets off on a self-guided tour. It’s a little before midday by the station’s arbitrary clocks, and the maze of narrow hallways is deserted. The sleeping cabins all have doors but none of the offices do. The workers are arranged three or four to a wood composite table, four or five tables per room, but no one speaks and no one looks up as she passes, though her footsteps echo conspicuously loudly in the silence. There’s no bell to signal the first lunch shift like there is at Jupiter Confederacy barracks, or on her own home station of Viceroy, but at 11:30 precisely, workers stand from their desks and stream down the halls in a silent horde. Karen follows them to the cafeteria and joins the food lines behind a man in a 22nd-century Old Earth-style suit, which seems to be the default. At 11:40, the cafeteria doors close and voices bubble up in conversation, like someone’s flipped a switch. She put on a professional smile and taps the man in front of her on the shoulder.  
“Good morning. My name is Karen Anderson, I’m from the Jupiter Confederacy. My colleagues and I are conducting a series of interviews, would you like to participate?” The man beams back at her.  
“Oh, of course, I’d love that,” he says, sticking out a hand for her to shake. “I’m very pleased to be of assistance.” The man’s name is Nolensville, he tells her, because that was the town in Tennessee where his great-grandmother was born. Karen, who’d stopped taking Terran Studies the moment it became an elective, tries to remember where that was.  
“Are you from Earth?” Nolensville asks as the lady behind the counter spoons something that looks a bit like cream corn onto their plates. Of course they don’t know, how would they?  
“No, I’m from a space station, too,” she says, because she doesn’t want to lie, but if these people are all under the impression Old Earth is still anything close to habitable, she’s not about to disabuse them of the notion through some rumour circulated by an office worker.  
“Will Earth send someone to us?” Nolensville asks.  
“I can only speak for the Jupiter Confederacy,” Karen says, and then, before the conversation can steer further into dangerous territory, “I noticed it’s very quiet in the hallways. Is it always like that?” Nolensville’s brow furrows.  
“Of course. Why would it not be?” he asks. They come to the end of the lunch line and begin to pick their way between the tables.  
“In my experience, when you have a lot of people working together in one place, sometimes they get caught up in chatting. Do you do something to avoid that?” Karen asks. Nolensville looks puzzled.  
“If you don’t work hard, it means you’re not devoted to the cause,” he says.  
“What cause?” Karen asks.  
“Returning to Earth, of course.” 

There are posters of Washington, everywhere. Karen notices it after lunch, while she’s wandering the too-silent halls again because she doesn’t have anything scheduled until tomorrow and disturbing anyone while they work seems like the kind of mistake she doesn’t want to make. Washington smiles benevolently down at her, overlaid over a picture of what a plaque tells her is the city that is his namesake. The sky is the kind of bright blue that hasn’t appeared anywhere on Old Earth since before the dawn of the 22nd century. She finds a stairwell and goes down a floor. The halls are densely packed and hopelessly winding. Karen picks a direction and starts walking. The rooms down here all have windowless metal doors. A hand clamps down on her shoulder and squeezes, spinning her around. She finds herself face-to-face with Amsterdam, who is red-faced and glaring.  
“What are you doing down here?” she demands.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was restricted,” Karen says, barely managing to keep her tone polite. Amsterdam’s still squeezing shoulder; she glances pointedly down at the offending hand.  
“What did you see?”  
“Just the hallways,” Karen says in a tone she hopes is soothing. “I was just going for a walk, I promise I didn’t see anything.”  
“Don’t come back here,” Amsterdam says. She escorts Karen back upstairs, breathing down her neck the entire time. 

Upstairs, it’s the first dinner shift. Amsterdam follows her all the way into the dining hall and seems to be fixing to keep following her indefinitely. Be diplomatic, Karen reminds herself.  
“Amsterdam, I appreciate how much you care about this settlement, and I promise you, I did not intend to break any rules. I will do my very best to avoid doing so again in the future.” Amsterdam chews her lip, nods curtly, and then walks away. Karen sighs in relief. Her colleagues are clustered around one of the plasticky blue tables that are the same the universe over and she slips into the free space between Thomas and Mona.  
“Karen, they want to go back to Old Earth,” Thomas says.  
“You didn’t tell them they can’t, right?” Karen asks, sharply. Thomas shakes his head.  
“For the time being, our official policy is to gather more information. I will make my report to our superiors at the end of the week and ask what they would have us do about it,” Stephan says. “Until then, try your best to stay away from the topic, and plead ignorance if you must.” He speaks quietly, voice nearly lost in the rumble of the cafeteria.  
“How about all those pictures of Washington? Do you think it’s a cult of personality?” Thomas asks. Karen shrugs.  
“It could be. It doesn’t inherently mean anything’s wrong, but it’s a warning sign. What I’m more worried about is the creepy silence. You pack twenty people into a room and sure, in some of those rooms some of the time, everyone will be quiet and focused, but accomplishing that with every single person in every single room should be next to impossible,” she says. She hadn’t stood in line for food so she plucks something rectangular and vaguely crispy that she thinks is supposed to be a french fry from Thomas’s plate.  
“That is odd, but it is also their first day hosting foreigners and I’m sure everyone is eager to make a good impression,” Stephan says.  
“I ran into Amsterdam in the basement today and she asked if I’d seen anything,” Karen says. “They’re probably checking up on us using the security cameras, but I doubt they’re watching constantly or I wouldn’t have made it into the basement in the first place.”  
“They told us they have the hospital down there, but they won’t let us see because apparently it would ‘disturb the patients,’” Mona says. “They keep showing off the engines, which would be great if I was, you know, an engineer.”  
“Should we check if they’re hiding anything there?” Karen asks.  
“Not yet. I want to save any risks that might force us into a premature departure until closer to the scheduled end to our visit.” 

***

The archives are housed on an ancient monitor in a grim and dusty room. The archivist— an unassuming woman named Rome who could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty— hovers over Karen’s shoulder as she sifts through old files. There’s not all that much there, and what they do have is sparse and badly organized in a way that makes her think someone was instructed to throw up whatever they deemed appropriate for the visitors to see and hadn’t done all that good a job of it. She chooses a file at random and opens it: Washington beams down at a crowd gathered into the cafeteria hall from behind a podium. It can’t been very old; he looks the same.  
“What was the occasion?” she asks.  
“That’s from the day Washington was elected chief commander,” Rome says dreamily.  
“How long has he had the position?” Karen asks, because she could have sworn Washington had said it was a long time.  
“Oh, I can’t even remember a time before, it’s been so wonderful,” Rome says. “I can’t think of a single reason why anyone would want to even think of when Washington wasn’t chief commander.” Karen notes the reply and then goes to check when the file was created.  
“What are you doing?” Rome asks.  
“Just checking some information on this file,” Karen says.  
“Don’t do that. I’m the archivist, I have all the information you need,” Rome insists. She’s smiling, but her shoulders are drawn up tight and there’s a look her eyes like Karen’s holding a knife to her throat.  
“Oh, of course, how silly of me to forget,” she says, dully. 

She works steadily through the day, noting down whatever Rome tells her. The archivist’s eyes stay glued to the screen until the clock strikes dinnertime and she stands. Karen takes advantage of the moment to check the data on the first file. It’s nearly two hundred years old. When she looks up, Rome is staring back at her with an expression akin to betrayal. 

***

The next morning, Karen doesn’t return to the archives. Instead, she draws the metaphorical short straw and has to spend the day in the education sector. She hasn’t seen anyone younger than eighteen yet— no great loss, in her view— and this turns out to be because they’re nestled into an obscure wing well away from the hard-working, eerily silent adults. School starts at eight in the morning and she follows the children as they surge through a pair of double doors at eight precisely, unprompted by a bell. Inside, maps of Old Earth with pins stuck in to mark what Karen can only assume is the place for which each child is named are painted onto what appears to be genuine paper but is probably a high-quality imitation are tacked up onto bulletin boards. Karen finds the classroom where she’s set to spend the day. The children hang their backpacks and scurry off to sit at their desks. There’s a bit of an age range; the settlement’s too small for it to be worth having separate classes for each grade. A picture of Washington stares down from the front— he’s smiling, half-kneeling with his arms around the shoulders of a pair of grinning children, dressed in what’s maybe supposed to be a casual suit. Karen feels uncomfortably like he’s watching her; she tries to move out of his line of sight and finds that it’s impossible. The teacher comes in, then, a man on the younger side of middle age who smiles brightly when he comes over to shake her hand. His name is Denmark. He tells her about the curriculum, which is a lot of math and science— it usually is, on space stations, because they need the next generation to be able to keep them all alive if something goes wrong— and then moves to the front of the room, where he claps his hands to silence the growing murmur of voices. The children clap the same pattern back at him. Denmark teaches them multiplication, and then he plays a cartoon called Washington and Amsterdam: Vanquishers of Evil, which is one of the more ridiculous things Karen’s seen but has a catchy theme song. Cartoon Washington and cartoon Amsterdam— who doesn’t smile any more in animated form than she does in real life— uncover the evil plot and throw the bad guys out the airlock to resounding cheers. The theme music plays (and Karen’s going to have that stuck in her head forever, she just knows it) and then cartoon Washington turns to the audience and says,  
“Now remember: if you report someone who needs vanquishing, you could be featured on next week’s episode!” 

***

Karen wakes up in the middle of the night because someone’s knocking on her door. She tumbles blearily out of bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and pulls the door open to find Mona Vasquez on the other side, fully dressed. The scientist pushes past her and shuts the door. She searches for a lock and then, finding none, grabs the chair from the narrow desk bolted into the wall and jams it under the doorknob.  
“Karen, there’s something wrong with this place,” she whispers.  
“I know,” Karen says. “Sit down.” Mona perches on the edge of the bed, leg jittering. Karen sits beside her, suddenly very much awake.  
“Jasper and I saw a squirrel while we were in the labs today,” Mona says. This is… not what Karen was expecting.  
“Are you sure?” she asks.  
“I know what a squirrel looks like,” Mona snaps. She puts her head in her hands and tugs her fingers through her hair. “We didn’t say anything about it to anyone from 45. Elspeth and Jasper went to check it out but apparently I’m ‘too junior’ to come. I haven’t seen either of them since.” A pause, and then, “do you believe me?” Karen lets out a quiet, breathless laugh.  
“It turns out Washington’s actually like, 240 years old, so, yeah, I believe you,” she says.  
“We have to find them,” Mona says. “I’m sorry to put this on you, but you’re the only one who knows the way around downstairs.” This is ridiculous. This is a terrible, horrible idea.  
“All right.” 

In the hallway, they hold hands like teenagers in a haunted house. Without any windows, the halls are pitch dark and Karen has to turn on the flashlight on her tablet to keep from bumping into the walls. They shuffle through the darkness for what feels like an eternity before they come to a staircase. Washington’s eyes peer down at them from the walls and the quiet thump of the door as it closes echoes in the silence. They pick their way down the stairs, clasped palms damp with sweat. Finally, they reach the bottom and step out into the maze of hallways. Karen has a good sense of direction, but usually she can see where she’s going. Tentatively, she chooses the path that’s straight ahead. And then someone shrieks. She squeezes Mona’s fingers. Mona squeezes back.  
“Which way?” she whispers.  
“Left, I think.” They go left. There’s another shriek. It doesn’t sound quite human. The sound grows louder and louder as they walk. Karen’s heart hammers against her ribcage, hard enough she can hear the rush of blood in her ears. And then something brushes up against her ankle. She leaps to the side, fumbles with her tablet and nearly drops it and— There were no squirrels growing up on Viceroy or at the Jupiter Confederacy barracks, but she’s seen pictures, even seen a few in real life, when she’s been planet-side, enough to know that this is a squirrel staring up at her now, ruddy-furred and bushy-tailed, light reflecting off dark eyes. Another scream pierces the air and it’s close, from the room right beside them. The squirrel scurries off. Slowly, Mona reaches out and tries the doorknob. It’s unlocked. The light flickers on when they step inside, and Karen’s throat tightens because it’s full of— she can’t even say what it’s full of, because those things aren’t animals, not really. They have fur and eyes and limbs that are twisted out of shape and she steps back on instinct and collides with someone’s chest. It’s Washington. He looks strangely ordinary in person, faintly pudgy, with hair that won’t lie flat and a mild smile.  
“Ah, yes. I know it can be a shock, at first,” he says.  
“What is this? Where are my colleagues?” Mona demands. She drops Karen’s hand and strides forward like she’s fixing to hit him.  
“Come now, there’s no need to abandon civility. I know this can be shocking, but I’m sure with some proper explanation, you’ll see sense,” Washington says. “We all miss Earth terribly, and for a long time, we thought there was no hope of returning. Instead, we resigned ourselves to replicating what we could of our lost home. But there’s no longer any need of that, now you’re all here.”  
“What does that mean?” Karen asks. Washington smiles at them expectantly.  
“You’re here to introduce us back to Earth, aren’t you?”  
“Old Earth hasn’t been habitable in hundreds of years,” she says. Something in Washington’s face changes. He surges forward, one hand closing on her throat, and slams her back into the wall. Dark spots dance over her vision.  
“Don’t lie to me,” he growls. “Why do you want to keep us from home, you filthy liar?” Her head pounds, fiercely, and she gasps at nothing. Somewhere very far away, Washington says,  
“Amsterdam, show them how I feel about traitors.” 

***

The first thing she feels is cold, a cold that reaches through her body and settles into her bones. Her throat aches, air wheezing thinly through her open mouth. The floor dips and swoops beneath her and she can’t seem to find the strength to push herself upright. Stephan’s propped against the wall opposite, smiling sardonically. Had he been there before?  
“What happened?” she asks, or tries to.  
“You’ve gotten us a first class view of Settlement 45’s prison system,” Stephan says. Then she blinks, and he is gone. 

Time passes oddly, stretching on in one moment and then skipping over hours at a time in the next. Sometimes there’s food, and she never feels hungry but she always finds herself eating anyway. Sometimes, Stephan or Thomas or Mona is there, or one of the other scientists who she only half recognizes, or her mother, or the violin teacher from when she was seven and insisted on taking lessons. Sometimes they talk to her. Sometimes, they only stare with empty eyes. 

On one of the better days, she’s curled into a corner and Stephan is sitting across from her, legs stretched out in front of him.  
“Too bad we’re not getting out of this,” she says, and her voice is weak and slurred, scratchy from disuse. “Thomas would’ve had a hell of a story. First assignment and it’s an animal-mutilating, possibly immortal dictator.” Stephan’s silent, so she continues on. “I spent all of mine bagging counterfeit doorhandles, of all things. Someone was trying to pass them off as antiques.” There’s nothing funny in it, but she finds herself laughing until her sides ache and her head goes tight and heavy and she slumps back to the floor. 

She wakes and Mona is standing in the doorway, hand stretched out towards her. Her skin is warm and when she pulls Karen to her feet, her legs are strong and steady.  
“Come on,” Mona says, tugging at her hand.  
“Where are we going?” Karen asks. Mona’s face breaks out into a smile.  
“Well now, isn’t that the question for the ages.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact about this story: the original version was done for an English assignment in grade 9 and because I had no idea how to end it, it was late, my story was like 5 pages too long and due the next day, I went, "fuck it, I'm just gonna kill everyone."  
> Extra fun fact: the other version that's on the internet (from a rewrite I did when I was 16) involved Karen hallucinating Mona with half her skull chopped off trying to strangle her to death, which I'd completely forgotten I included in that version (it wasn't in the one I handed in for class, for obvious reasons), and also Thomas dying and his corpse decomposing in the shared cell for a couple of weeks. So that was a fun little moment of self-discovery. Anyway, thanks for reading. Comments feed my soul.


End file.
